First Encounters
by rabidcrazygirl
Summary: How did our favorite characters feel about each other when they first met? Read and find out! Goodsized dollops of Hodgela and BB. Now with new and improved chapter titles!
1. The Artist

**Hello, everyone! This is my new project—"First Encounters." You probably got that already, but shut up, I'm trying to do an introduction here.**

**The whole point of this is to try to map out some of the first encounters that our favorite characters had with one another—this particular one is Brennan meeting Angela. The later ones may be a bit shippier—Brennan/Booth and Hodgela, to be exact. Not this one, though. **

**Disclaimer: what do _you_ think? Do you honestly think that I own a show on the FOX network? If you do, I hope that there is someone with you who takes care of you and makes sure that you take your medicine regularly. **

**I hope you like it! And I hope that you review!**

"What the hell is this?" asked Dr. Temperance Brennan, brandishing a sketchpad. "Were you physically impaired when you drew this? This looks nothing like a human being, much less a Revolutionary soldier!"

The target of her disdain, a cowering sketch artist named John Anderson, protested. "Dr. Brennan, I followed your instructions _exactly_. It's how you described it to me!"

"So how did you come out with a Picasso?" Brennan asked with a rare display of sarcasm. "I have never seen such a display of artistic ineptitude since—"

"Dr. Brennan!" A deep voice cut across her diatribe. Brennan's head whipped around and she saw that the director of the Jeffersonian Institute, Dr. Goodman, approaching her.

"Dr. Goodman, I was just—" she began to say, but Goodman cut her off.

"A word, please, Dr. Brennan," he said, gripping her elbow and steering her forcibly away from the shaken artist.

"He mangled that man's face in his drawing," Brennan told the director irritatedly as they marched through the Jeffersonian's hallways together. "He took my description and the skull and went the complete other direction. His work is completely subjective, and he has absolutely no idea what he is doing!"

"Dr. Brennan!" exclaimed Goodman as the two halted before his office. "I had heard reports that you were terrorizing the artists here, and now I see that those reports were not exaggerated. But I can't have you should down every artist that you work with!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but my work is very painstaking, and I need someone who knows what he is doing," protested Brennan. "I need someone who knows how to take information from bare bones and translate it into a face. I can't just have any old street caricaturist coming in and claiming that he knows what he is doing while he butchers one of the most important aspects of this process!"

"And that, Dr. Brennan, is why I've called you to my office," said Dr. Goodman patiently. "There's somewhere in there who I want you to meet."

"An artist?" asked Brennan skeptically, one eyebrow raised. "What makes you think that he's cut out for this kind of work?"

"_She_ has performed admirably on all tests that I have set for her thus far," Goodman sighed. "The final test is you."

Brennan wasn't sure how she felt about the man's implication with his final statement, but after careful deliberation, Brennan determined that there could be no harm in simply meeting the candidate. Rolling her eyes, she grasped the handle and pushed the door open.

There, in Dr. Goodman's dimly-lit office, sat a woman of approximately Brennan's age, with wavy brown hair, slanted eyes and high cheekbones. Her fashion sense was obviously that of the typical artist, but instead of looking eccentric and slightly insane, this woman made the eclectic and distinctly bohemian collection of clothes work. On her, they looked natural and beautiful, and Brennan found herself slightly envying the woman's quiet confidence.

"Dr. Brennan, this is Angela Montenegro," said Goodman, who had entered behind her. "Miss Montenegro, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan."

The artist stood and stepped forward with an outstretched hand and gave a slightly nervous smile. "Hi," she said in a slightly melodic voice. "I guess that you're my last test, huh?"

Brennan shook the woman's hand without a smile. "I guess so," she said. "Do you have a sketchpad with you?"

"Always." Angela smiled brightly, pointing at the pad resting against the chair where she had been sitting. Brennan swiftly crossed the room and picked up a skull that Goodman had had resting on a shelf.

"Male," said Brennan, inspecting the bone. "Middle-aged. Probably Asian." She looked up at Angela. "You take it from there." Brennan stepped forward towards the woman, holding the skull out in her hand.

She did not miss the look of fleeting panic and disgust that crossed the woman's face as she regarded the skull. "Do remains bother you?" asked Brennan, curious. Angela stared fixedly into the skull's eye sockets, paling a little. Then, jut when Brennan thought that she was either going to throw up or run away, she reached out a hand that trembled only a little, and took the skull from her. Brennan looked up at the artist inquisitively.

"I got used to the sounds of cows and rickshaws outside my window in India," Angela explained with a curious definitiveness. "I can get used to this."

Brennan found herself smiling in spite of herself. Giving the other woman a nod, she walked toward the door. "Take all the time you need," she told her. "Send someone to get me when you're done."

"You count on it, sweetie," said Angela, more absorbed in studying the skull than in her actual words. Goodman followed Brennan out of his office and the last glimpse that Brennan got of the artist before the door swung closed was of her tapping her pencil against her lips and beginning to draw.

**So there you go. I wish that it would have been a little better. And I wish that I could have gotten into the characters' heads more. But such is life. And I just didn't think that Angela and Brennan would immediately become BFFs, friendship bracelets and all. **

**Review, please!**


	2. Bugs and Slime

**I couldn't put off the Hodgela any longer—I do love it so. So here you are: "Hodgins goes to work." Who will he meet? If you don't know, you either don't watch the show (in which case, what are you doing here, in the "Bones" section of or you are**

**stupid. It could go either way.**

**Disclaimer: you figure it out.**

Dr. Jack Hodgins was trying his hardest not to be noticed, which was slightly hindered by his second-most important goal: of finding out who this Dr. Brennan was and what the hell he was supposed to be doing. Around him, men and women in blue lab coats strode about with mysterious tubes and specimens on slides in their hands—every single one of them seemed as though he or she was carrying something important to someplace important.

He felt incredibly out of place here, with his worn leather bag slung over his shoulder, scruffy jeans, and T-shirt. His only concession to the incredible wealth from which he came was the Porsche now parked in the Jeffersonian staff parking lot.

"Are you Dr. Hodgins?" came a voice behind him. Hodgins turned and saw a young man standing there. The badge on his lab coat's chest pocket proclaimed his name to be Dr. Allen Placker.

"Um…yeah, I am," he said with a nervous chuckle, pointing at the brand-new staff badge on his chest. "At least, that's what this tells me." Mentally reviewing what he had just said, Hodgins winced. He always got stupid when he was nervous. He _had_ to calm down, or he'd walk out of the meeting with his new boss with her thinking that he was either a complete idiot, or stoned.

The other man remained unsmiling. "I'm supposed to take you to see Dr. Brennan," he told Hodgins without a single emotion registering on his stony face. He beckoned. "Come with me, please."

Hodgins followed Dr. Placker through strange linoleum hallways and wondered if he would ever learn his way around. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice when the other man stopped outside a wooden door that was virtually indistinguishable from the others, and he almost walked into him. Placker shot Hodgins a glare and opened the door.

The first thing that he heard was the sound of two women laughing. Curious, he stepped inside the office, bringing the two sources into view. There were two women of about the same age, one sitting behind a desk and the other lounging in a chair across from the first woman. _Brennan must be the one behind the desk_, thought Hodgins, though he believed that he could have discerned this without looking at where the women were sitting. There was something about the first woman, something that just screamed "SCIENTIST!" Maybe it was the way she held herself, so properly and so stiff. Maybe it was the way that she quickly regained control of herself after her bout of laughter. Maybe it was the way that her eyes flicked over him so analytically, making him feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"Dr. Hodgins?" Dr. Brennan asked, meeting his eyes inquisitively.

"Uh…yeah," he said, nodding. "I'm, uh, the entomologist."

She stood, sticking out a hand. "Yes, I know. I'm Dr. Temperance Brennan. This is my sketch artist, Angela Montenegro." She gestured to the other woman, who stood to shake Hodgins' hand as well. He turned to greet her—and felt as though someone had just hit him on the top of the head with a hammer.

She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Hodgins felt as though he was moving through molasses as he reached out a hand to grasp hers, feeling suddenly very awkward and adolescent. The woman's ivory skin glowed in the sunlight that filtered through the office windows, and her long, wavy brown hair framed high cheekbones and long, slanted brown eyes.

"H-hello," he said, feeling the nervous stupidity swamp him once again. He realized that he was still holding her hand and quickly released it. _Jesus,_ he berated himself, _just how creepy an impression can you make?_

"Jack Hodgins is replacing our last entomologist," Dr. Brennan was saying. "The one who Goodman fired for coming in to work intoxicated."

"Sweetie," laughed Angela to Brennan, "Goodman didn't _fire_ him. He left because he was afraid of you!" A look of consternation dawned over Brennan's face—she looked as though she didn't quite know what to say to this.

"Yeah…" said Hodgins, the silence making him uncomfortable. "So if you just point me the way to a microscope, I guess that I can just start work on…whatever you want me to."

Brennan, still looking slightly unsettled by Angela's revelation, nodded. "Uh…Angela can show you the way to the lab."

"Sweetie," Angela said patiently, "what did we talk about _asking_ for favors, not assigning them?"

"Oh—right," Brennan snapped back into focus. "Uh…Angela, would you mind showing Dr. Hodgins to the lab?"

"No, I would not," Angela replied. She turned her chocolate eyes to Hodgins and grinned—he felt his pulse pounding in his ears. "Just follow me!" she told him brightly, walking quickly out the door past the drooling Placker, who was still standing there. Lengthening his stride, Hodgins caught up with her.

"Is she always so…disconnected?" Hodgins asked the woman, trying to ignore the subtle scents of oranges and vanilla wafting from her hair. "So professional?"

"Temperance?" asked Angela. "Oh—yeah. That's just how she is. It's kind of sweet, really, once you get used to it." She strode down the corridors, giving the impression that she owned the entire Jeffersonian and knew exactly where everything was. Hodgins, walking beside her in silence, bet that she knew the layout of the entire institute on her second day working there.

After taking several twists and turns which Hodgins completely failed to commit to memory, they arrived in a chamber that could only be a lab. "If Brennan needs you to look at something, she'll have it sent down," she told him. "Otherwise there are these to get through." She waved an arm at the wall of drawers, each with a selection of bone fragments and specimens in them.

"Keep me sharp, huh?" asked Hodgins, taking in the wall with wide blue eyes. "You don't want me off my game, do you?"

The hint of sarcasm in his voice made Angela laugh. "I know, I know. I've got a billion facial reconstructions to get through, and mostly I spend my time procrastinating."

"Well," said Hodgins mock-seriously. "Don't worry about _this_, baby. Your resident bug-and-slime guy's got it under control."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Angela said, smiling at him. Nodding a farewell, she walked out the door.

Hodgins stood in the middle of the lab for a moment, grinning to himself. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he opened one of the drawers and got to work.

**Wow, that was actually a bit harder than I'd expected it to be. Huh. But I have a genius idea: Why don't you review? It would make everyone feel so much better. Honestly, it could even make the world a better place!**

**And, if you've got too much time on your hands, check out my other stories! Go ahead…you know you want to…**


	3. Artist's Eyes

**So, lots of people told me that I should have included Angela's POV last chapter. I decided to do a short little snippet of Angela's feelings after meeting Hodgins. More yummy Hodgela! And it is very short—but don't be hatin'! Read and, perhaps, review!**

**Disclaimer: No. You get it by now.**

Angela Montenegro wasn't quite sure what to make of the entomologist with the startling blue eyes_. No, that's a lie_, she thought to herself as she walked down the fluorescent-lit hallways of the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington DC. _I know what to make of him. He's a nice guy with a talent for bugs and slime, a fun sense of humor and a great body. Even if it is a little short._

_That_ seemed straightforward enough. What she couldn't figure out was her reaction to him. Angela had an artist's eye—the first thing she did upon meeting someone new and (this was the important part) interesting was to try to memorize their most distinctive feature—that way if she ever wanted to use it in a painting later, she could. Angela kept a little catalogue of features inside her head—the moustache on that guy she'd seen in Georgetown, that one woman's striking red hair, the little boy's deep brown eyes.

But that was it—she only remembered single characteristics. And now she had Jack Hodgins' entire face branded before her eyes. Wherever she turned, she saw the long lashes, the quirky half-smile, the startling eyes, the curly brown hair and scruffy beard.

Angela shook her head to clear it. _This is crazy_, she thought to herself, sinking down onto a bench that overlooked Brennan's large workspace. _I don't even know the guy. I've said about ten words to him!_

What was it that made Hodgins so…interesting to her? Angela couldn't figure it out. She realized that it was stupid, to be so fixated on someone she'd met 30 minutes ago—but that didn't erase his face from her vision. Finally Angela pulled a small sketchpad from her bag and began to draw with the pencil stuck through the spirals along the top.

First came the curly hair…then the nose, the ears, the smile. Finally, a pair of intense eyes emerged onto the page, staring directly through her and completing the sketch. Angela sat back and surveyed her work.

Not great—but not horrible either. She flipped the sketchpad closed and stuffed it back into her purse. Hopefully, with luck, she would be able to forget Dr. Jack Hodgins. For now, at least.

**Short but sweet. I hope. Anyway, it may have been short, but does that mean that this chapter is any less deserving of reviews? Of course not. We are not length-ist here. We do not discriminate. So go ahead! Fight discrimination in your society by reviewing this chapter! Every word counts.**


	4. The Cop

**Sorry this took so long to get updated! I was completely without inspiration for the chapter about Zack, so I skipped it and went on to the delicious BB. So here's the meeting between Booth and Brennan and everyone else in extremely long chapter form. I'll try to get back to Zack later—it may happen, it may not. Who can tell with the crazy, over-packed schedules we lead?**

**Disclaimer: If you don't know it by now, there's no helping you.**

_I can't believe that I'm doing this_, thought Special Agent Seeley Booth as he climbed the steps that led to the Jeffersonian Institute's impressive Medico-Legal lab. _I hate squints—they aren't normal people. They get locked away in their own little world to play with their toys and they only come out when they have to accept some sort of prize._

But after the fiasco of the Johnson case, Cullen had been only too eager to appoint Booth as Squint Liaison—his twisted, horrible punishment for Booth's disastrous slip-up.

_How was I supposed to know that that woman was actually a man?_ He thought angrily as he pushed open the doors and walked inside. _There was some careful surgery—and makeup—and padding! Anyone would have been confused by it!_

But despite all these protestations, Cullen had held Booth responsible, and now he was here, about to enter Brainville with a new case. The FBI had just pulled a body from the Potomac, one that was almost entirely rotted away and waterlogged and falling to pieces. Booth had seen some pretty grisly things in his days as a sniper, but this was definitely the worst, and he was fighting nausea just thinking about it.

And now they had to identify the body. The coroners that worked with the FBI had been at a loss, but one had referred Booth to "the best of the best" (as she had put it)—this Dr. Brennan. As he showed his badge to the guard standing outside the lab's doors he took in his surroundings. _Fantastic,_ he grumbled to himself. _Now I get to spend the next two hours trying to communicate with a man who is probably completely without social skills and practically speaks a different language. _

But as Booth walked into the lab, all thoughts momentarily fled from his head and despite himself, he was filled with awe. It was as though he had just stepped into an immense, sunlit cavern—only one with dozens of men and women in blue lab coats bustling around. In the middle of the room was a platform and, peering at it, Booth could see the Potomac body on it, lying on a metal table. The coroners had sent it ahead for him, so he wouldn't have to deal with arranging the transport of the body himself.

He took a step towards the platform, but a voice behind him stopped him. "Are you Agent Booth?" Booth turned and saw a young woman standing there. Being straight and only human, he couldn't help but notice that she was incredibly attractive, with long brown hair and mischievous slanted eyes.

"Well," the woman smiled flirtily and stuck out a hand. "If I'd known that the FBI was loaning out such good-looking agents, I would have tried to get one for myself. My name's Angela Montenegro and I'm _very_ pleased to meet you."

Booth grinned, finding himself put a little at his ease by someone who seemed so normal, and he stuck out a hand. "Special Agent Seeley Booth," he said. "You work here? With Dr. Brennan?"

"I work _for_ Dr. Brennan," Angela said. The two began to walk towards one of the hallways that led away from the main lab area, and Booth's eyes wandered back to the body all alone on the platform. With an act of will, he fixed his rebellious eyes forwards.

"That's kind of a surprise," Booth said to Angela. "I mean, you don't really seem like the kind of person to spend her time in here with all these sq—dead people."

Angela laughed, ignoring his fumble. "I'm not, really," she said. The heels of her shoes created loud tapping noises on the linoleum tiles. "When I first started here, I thought I'd go crazy. I'm an artist," she explained, though Booth thought that he could guess as much from her fashion sense. "I draw faces for the skulls for Brennan. But I can't spend all my time around skeletons, so I work on my own projects, too. Right now I'm designing this computer program that will—"

The sound of bickering voices interrupted her explanation. Booth glanced at her just in time to see faint dread pass over her face and he heard her mutter, "oh, no." Two men in blue lab coats rounded a corner ahead and began to approach. The one on the left was short, with wild curly hair and intent blue eyes. On the right was a man who was obviously younger—he looked like a college student who had just rolled out of bed. Angela sighed and stopped as the two men saw her.

"Hey, Angela," said the shorter man. Booth saw his eyes flick from Angela to Booth and back again. A suspicious—and slightly jealous?—look came over his face, and Booth hid a slight smile. The younger man just looked slightly confused.

"Hey guys," said Angela, a bit less than enthusiastically. "This is Special Agent Booth. He's the FBI Agent who's getting Brennan's help with his case. Agent Booth, this is Jack Hodgins, our entomologist." She indicated the shorter bearded man. "And this is Zack Addy. He's Dr. Brennan's grad student."

"Dr. Brennan just told us about the case," the grad student said, more to Angela than to Booth. "I've already formulated several ideas as to the cause of death. I tried to talk about them to Hodgins, but he just said that the FBI is an institution created in order to keep tabs on the American people and that we shouldn't be helping anyone out who spies on us through our televisions."

Booth blinked at first Zack, then Hodgins who stood with his arms crossed over his stocky chest, regarding Booth with a stony, blue-eyed stare. Angela coughed and grabbed his arm.

"Uh, okay, Zack," she said. 'We've got to go meet with Brennan now. Talk to you…later." With that she towed Booth past the two men and down the hallway with impressive force.

"Sorry about that," she muttered once they rounded a corner. "The two of them are…they're weird. Anyway, here's Brennan's office."

"Angela," Booth said, stopping her. "Why do you work here? Really! It's like Crazytown!"

Angela smiled at him. "Sweetie, it's really not that complicated," she told him. "The pay's good, I'm doing some good things, and Brennan's one of my best friends."

Booth looked at her for a minute. "He's your best friend?" he asked, slightly confused.

"He?" Now Angela looked as confused as Booth felt.

"Dr. Brennan," Booth clarified. Angela laughed.

"Sweetie, Brennan's not a _man_," she said, pushing the door open. She walked inside before Booth could ask for a bit more information on the rather crucial subject of his forensic anthropologist's gender.

"Temp?" he heard Angela ask. "The FBI's here."

"Oh, alright," he heard a husky (and definitely female) voice reply. "Send him in."

Running a nervous hand through his hair, Booth followed Angela into the office.

Looking at the person behind the desk, Booth had an important revelation: Dr. Brennan was about as far from a man as could be gotten. The light from her desk-lamp touched her hair, bringing out the auburn color, and large blue eyes stared up at him. They didn't read him (Booth doubted that this woman knew the first thing about reading people) but they analyzed him, taking in every single physical trait and coming to a conclusion before he could even open his mouth.

"Dr. Brennan?" Booth asked, clearing his throat and wincing as his voice cracked slightly. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth. I'm the one working the Potomac case."

Booth's words came to Brennan as though from a great distance. The forensic anthropologist was busy trying to free herself from the FBI agent's dark-eyed gaze. Brennan didn't realize that the man had spoken for several uncomfortably silent seconds. She shook herself into full consciousness. "Uh—of course. Yes. Dr. Brennan. That's me." A strangled laugh came from behind Booth—Angela was having trouble suppressing her mirth at her friend's discomfort.

_They should _warn_ you before they send over incredibly attractive agents! _ Brennan thought angrily. _No, no, that's irrational. But still…_ A light blush surged into her cheeks as she realized exactly how idiotic she sounded.

"I should go," said Angela from behind Booth. "You two have to discuss this case, don't you?"

"Uh—yes. Alright," said Booth, who was having some mysterious trouble breathing. "It was nice meeting you Angela."

"You too," she said, grinning from ear to ear at the stricken pair. "And don't worry—you'll be seeing a _lot_ of me in the future."

Brennan wanted to run after her friend as she walked out the door and demand that she stay in the room with them—but then she got a hold of herself. Turning a forced smile up to the awkwardly looming man, she said, "Pull up a chair, Agent Booth?" Booth nodded and sat down.

"There's not a lot to discuss," he said carefully. "I mean, your only job is to ID the body, and whatever you can give us about cause of death would be a big bonus."

Brennan wasn't exactly sure how she felt about being talked to this way. "Yes, I understand that," she said. "We will, of course, be using our own methods to identify these factors. We are not your _tools_, Agent Booth. We have our own way of operating."

"So I'm on your turf, I do what you say?" Booth grinned somewhat dangerously.

"I'm not sure that I know what that means," Brennan replied.

Booth found himself without words for the second time in the past ten minutes and simply looked at her for a moment. "Yeah…" he said. "You all do what needs to be done. You know better than me. I've gotta get out of here—I've gotta talk to the man who gave us the tip about the body."

Brennan's eyes seemed to light up. "Can I come?" she wanted to know. She was out of her seat and grabbing her coat before Booth even realized that she had moved.

"No!" he exclaimed, more vehemently than he'd intended. He did not want this unsettling woman around more than he could handle. "I mean…it's FBI business," he said. "You know how it is…scientists in the lab, cops on the street."

Brennan shook her head. "No I don't," she said. "But I think I get what you're saying." She hung her coat back up. "Do you need someone to show you the way out?" she asked, somewhat stiffly. "Or can you find it on your own?"

"Hey," said Booth, taking a bit more offense at the statement than could be reasonably warranted. "I may not have a PhD, but I can find my way around a building." He walked past her and out the door, trying to ignore the faint, flowery smell of her hair that followed him.

**So there you go! Did you like it? Why not review and tell me about it! It's a good thing to do—reviewing is scientifically proven to reduce both stress and baldness, as well as building a strong core and excellent arm muscles. Who knew? **


	5. The Man with the Plan

**I never knew that Zack was so popular! But then again, he is a pretty awesome character. So here's his story! I've found that it's a lot easier to write now that "Bones" is back on the air. I pined while it was gone, absolutely pined.**

**Disclaimer: I got nothing.**

Zack Addy had always been the man with the plan. Ever since he was little and he had discovered that he was light-years beyond his peers (and many of the adults in his acquaintance) intellectually speaking, he had known, deep down, that he was destined for something great. At eight, he had set his sights upon going to John Hopkin's University in Baltimore, Maryland, and they had been only too happy to snatch up someone with the grades and recommendations as Zack. And when he'd disclosed his intention to stay on for grad work…well, the fact that they'd given him an apartment close to the campus free of charge said more than it did.

So when Zack heard that his idol, Dr. Temperance Brennan, was offering a position to the best grad student to work with her in the Medico-Legal Lab of the Jeffersonian Institute in Washington D.C., he had jumped at the chance. There was no question in his mind that he was the best—it was simply the way that it was. Zack had applied, been accepted (small words to describe the happiest moment of his life), and had packed his bags and hopped the Metro down to Washington.

The full impact of what he had just done began to hit him as he lugged his three suitcases up the escalator steps towards the sunlight above. As he neared the top, he realized that he had absolutely no where to stay, now that he was in DC. He couldn't live back up in Baltimore—the commute would be sheer hell, and he wasn't sure that the University would be too eager to give him back his old apartment, now that he was officially on long-term loan to Dr. Brennan. Zack stopped in his steps, unintentionally causing a back-up of irritated commuters behind him. He stood, staring into nothing, shocked at his ill-thought-out plans.

_How could you allow yourself to make this decision?_ Zack berated himself. _No one of your IQ should ever make this kind of mistake!_ He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost tripped as the escalator merged into the ground. As he stepped, blinking, out into the sunlight, he wondered whether this was the biggest mistake that he had ever made.

The sunspots cleared from his vision, and Zack found himself staring up at the most imposing building that he had ever had the misfortune to see. It wasn't particularly big—it wasn't particularly fancy—it simply symbolized his future, and what he'd done with it, and how much of a mess he might just have made.

Taking a deep breath, Zack gripped the handle of his suitcase in a sweaty hand, adjusted his two duffel bags over his shoulders, and marched up the long path to the Jeffersonian.

The lab was big and wide and full of people who looked incredibly important and busy. Overcome with a sudden wave of shyness, Zack stayed close to the wall, watching the scene before him with wary eyes. He came very close to turning right around and walking straight out the door until he overheard one important-looking scientist describe the specimen in his hand as an _Anisoptera_ when it was obviously a common _Musca domestica_. Feeling braced by the stranger's slip-up, and reassured of his incredible intelligence, Zack lugged his bags into the middle of the floor.

"I can't believe that you would ask me out to a club with you, and then spend all your time dancing with some other guy!" The man's voice caught Zack's attention, mostly because the subject-matter was so incredibly non-scientific.

"I told you that I would be there with _Andrew_," a woman's voice replied. "Andrew is _my boyfriend_. You knew this. I asked you along because you were complaining that you didn't have anything to do last Friday night."

Zack turned and saw a man and a woman approaching him. The man was short—only about five-foot-seven, and the woman was an inch or two taller than him. They argued as they walked, each refusing to look at one another, and yet subconsciously walking closer to each other than proper etiquette demanded. Zack noticed all of this, and didn't know what to make of it. All he knew was that the woman was hot.

But the pair seemed to be coming for him. When they were two yards or so away, they stopped, and the man looked up at him. "You Dr. Brennan's grad student?" he asked. Zack nodded mutely, feeling his fear come on again at the man's slightly feral grin.

The woman took pity on him. "Hodgins, lay off," she admonished the man, taking a few more steps towards Zack. "Don't pay attention to him, sweetie," she told Zack, beckoning to him. "We're supposed to take you to see Temp—uh, Dr. Brennan." Zack nodded again, and, gripping his suitcase once more, began trotting after the pair as they took off down a seemingly-random hallway.

"I'm Angela Montenegro," the woman said over her shoulder to Zack. "I'm the sketch artist—I work on giving faces to the bodies."

"Ah," said Zack, feeling a tremor of apprehension as he said his first words in his new job. "That explains why you do not look traditionally intelligent. You are an artist, not a scientist."

Angela stopped and looked at him as Hodgins laughed. "What?" asked Zack. "Did I say something wrong?"

The woman studied him for a moment, then smiled in a slightly strained way and said, "Oh, you are going to get along incredibly well with Brennan." She turned and continued walking down the hall.

"What?" asked Zack, bewildered. He took off after the pair again, but he was slowed down by his luggage—his arm was starting to burn with the weight of his suitcase. "What does that mean?"

"Just that we're sure that you'll be very happy here," Hodgins replied. They stopped outside an office, and Zack nearly ran into them. "Why don't you leave all your bags with me?" the man suggested, tugging the suitcase from Zack's hand. "You don't want to be loaded down with luggage when you go in to face the beast."

"What beast?" Zack asked as he handed his two duffel bags to Hodgins. "Does Dr. Brennan have a dog?"

Angela shook her head in bemusement. "He was being metaphorical," she told him.

"Oh," Zack nodded. "I'm not very good with metaphor."

Hodgins and Angela exchanged looks. "Sweetie," Angela told him, "you and Brennan may possibly be the same person, just in different bodies."

"That's impossi—" Zack tried to point out to her, but she cut him off.

"Just listen to what she has to say and don't argue much, and you'll be in like Flynn," Angela said, patting him on the back.

Zack decided not to waste more time in asking what that phrase meant—he had a more pressing question to ask. As the pair were just turning to leave, he said, "Wait!" They turned back. "Um…I don't really have a place to stay while I'm here in DC, and I was wondering if either of you…knew of an empty apartment, or anything."

There was a moment of empty silence during which Zack's heart sank. Finally, Dr. Hodgins spoke up. "I know a place," he told Zack, avoiding meeting his eyes. "It's pretty nice, and the rent's reasonable. Um…I can show it to you after your meeting with Dr. Brennan. Did you drive down?"

Zack shook his head. "No," he said. "I choose not to drive."

Hodgins regarded him for a long moment, and then grinned, teeth flashing white against his brown curly beard. "You would, wouldn't you?" he asked, then held up his hand as Zack opened his mouth to respond. "Don't answer that question," he said. "It was rhetorical. You're not supposed to."

"Oh," Zack said. Then he turned back towards the office, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door—ready to face the beast.

**Review, please! It's wonderful for the environment, for your personal health, and for world peace!**


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